Forgetful
by daphrose
Summary: A teenage girl was found lying unconscious on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. When she woke up, she had no recollection of who she was or where she came from. That's what everyone thought, anyway. That girl was me. And did I really forget who I am? Ha ha . . . heck no.
1. Chapter 1

**Who wants to see Forgetful? This is the next multi-chaptered story that I'm most excited about. And while I don't have all the details worked out yet (for the plot, number of chapters, etc.), I know basically where I want it to go. I feel like I know what I'm doing enough to post the first chapter. So . . . here you go!**

**Originally I wasn't really going to say who the main character was. But there's not a really a twist. You know her, I love her, and I'm not going to shock you with "It's been so-and-so ****_all along_****!" (Though there will be a few twists, granted.) So check the character list again if you missed it. It will also become obvious later.**

**Not quite sure when this story takes place. I believe it would be sometime after "Avalanche" and before "No Going Back." So the latter half of season two. Some parts may be slightly AU. Bear with me here; I'm trying to stick to canon as much as I can, but some story details may veer from it slightly.**

**Rated T for injuries and some intense scenes later on. Could possibly slip by with a K plus rating, but I didn't want to risk it.**

**This is weird, and I personally think it's fun. I don't own Lab Rats, Disney does. I do, however, own my OCs. Please enjoy. :)**

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*** * * Chapter 1 * * ***

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"Miss? Miss?" A hand shook my shoulder. My lips almost parted to utter the words, "Five more minutes!" but I opted for a groan instead. This was the best nap I had had in years. Whoever was trying to wake me up would get it when I sat up. "Miss, I need you to wake up, please."

Okay, now he sounded desperate. Something was going on here. I cracked open my eyes and blinked a few times to clear my vision. Crouching above me was a man in a blue uniform, staring down with concern in his eyes. He smiled lightly as I looked up at him.

"Shh, it's going to be okay," he murmured. "Hey, Charlie, she's awake."

"She's awake?" Another man wearing the same uniform ran up. My brain had already categorized them as police officers. From previous experience I knew that they were to be trusted.

"It's going to be okay," the first officer repeated. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

_What kind of childish game is this? You have three fingers in the air, dummy. What does this prove?_

However, I knew exactly what it proved. I also knew that there might be consequences if I answered that question correctly. Before I said anything, I considered my options.

First, I could answer _incorrectly_; say two or four or even one. That would give them proper concern, and it would definitely provide me with top-notch care. On the other hand, it might concern them _too _much. If and when I was taken to a hospital, it would result in more tests that I simply could not handle. I would also have to keep up the charade, answering incorrectly whenever it was needed most. I currently did not feel up to that task.

Second, I could play dumb. I could just remain silent. It would be easy. It would also make whatever came next easier. I wouldn't have to answer anything. They would assume that I was deaf or mute or just in shock from . . . whatever had happened to me. Chances are they wouldn't put _too _much pressure on me (I was dealing with professionals, after all) but there was sure to some. Pressure was normally something I could handle very well, but, again, in my current condition I didn't know how long I could keep it up. Besides, they may turn out to be helpful, in which case I might accidentally open my mouth because I like them so much.

The third option seemed like my best choice: I would answer correctly. It wouldn't give too much away, and I wouldn't be taking the risk of excessive medical examinations down the road. I could stutter and stammer, though, and seem to struggle with it. Appear weak, but not broken. That was the key.

Now, all those sentences that might have taken you several seconds to read took my brain approximately 0.91 seconds to process. My father called me hyperactive. My brothers called me annoying. I called myself analytical. Most people who met me wouldn't call me that (I didn't make it obvious), but I had many, many secrets . . . most of which had to kept from the hard-working men positioned above me.

"Th-Three," I said weakly, tiredly. I didn't lift my head from the pavement. I didn't move any muscles. I just said the word in way that made me look helpless, but still responsive.

"Good," the officer said gently. "Can you tell us your name?"

Oh dear, another tough question. Again, there were so many options. My brain ran through it faster than you could say, "I know who I am," but I'll slow it down for you.

Plan A was to tell them my name. That plan was disregarded as soon as it came into my mind. There were a plethora of reasons, but first and foremost was the fact that I needed to stay safe. There were people after me; I couldn't risk being on the news and having them see my name. After all, it's not every day a teenage girl is found on the side of the road.

Plan B was to tell them a fake name. That could work, I suppose. Give them an alias; a cover for them to believe. However, that would be another thing for me to keep up. If I remember my name, chances are I would remember a lot of other things, like my family. I couldn't tell them about my family. I didn't even know where my family _was_. They would search for someone with my fake name. I couldn't risk that.

Plan C was the one I settled on. That plan was what I liked to call "Plan Amnesia." It was simple: I didn't know who I was. I had no idea how I wound up on the side of the road (which wasn't far from the truth) or where I came from and who my family was (which was further from the truth).

Less than three seconds had passed before I settled on Plan Amnesia and gave my answers to the officers. "I-I don't know." I let my voice crack a little, making me sound sad, pathetic, and scared. Inside I stayed alert, ready to work through any more questions the officers asked me.

"Do you know how you wound up here?" the officer named Charlie asked.

"No," I said meekly.

"Do you know who your family is?" the other officer asked.

"No!" I let my voice rise in pitch, making me sound desperate.

"Don't push her, Stewart," Charlie said. "It's okay, sweetheart. There's an ambulance on its way. You'll be fine, okay?"

I nodded numbly. Then I pulled out the best acting skills I had and rolled my head backward, my eyes closing slightly. Just as I had anticipated, the officers grabbed me and shook me gently.

"Stay with us, okay?"

I groaned softly and cracked open my eyes. It took all my strength not to laugh. Of course, that would've been disrespectful. I really appreciated what these guys were doing for me. I had been raised with a sense of respect for police officers. They were amazing people, risking their lives every day to serve those in need. They were heroes in their own right.

When I leaned my head back, I became acutely aware that something was off. Beneath my head was a sticky substance that caught in my hair. I prayed that it was oil, but as my senses fully returned, I knew the truth. The side of my head stung like a thousand wasps and I felt weak. My head was bleeding. More accurately, my left cheek was bleeding and red liquid was dripping onto the pavement. I could feel the painful line that ran from just above my eyebrow all the way to my chin. _Oh, please don't let it be a concussion! _I thought desperately. At least the head injury would make my amnesia story more believable.

I mentally scanned myself for other injuries, working my way down my body. My whole head was aching from the injury, but I don't think it was concussion-worthy aching, for which I was grateful. My chest was fine, thank goodness. Any injuries there had a possibility of going from merely dangerous to downright deadly. My neck seemed okay, which, like my chest, was essential for survival. My arms didn't hurt and neither did my abdomen. As I worked my way down to my legs, however, I discovered a problem.

My right leg was not in a natural position. I could tell that without even looking at it. It was bent a direction it should not go and the swell of pain caused the breath to hitch in my chest. _My leg, _I thought forlornly, _why oh why did it have to be my _leg_, of all things!_

Flashing lights came around the bend and I blinked and groaned. There was no acting this time. The lights really did give me a headache. I squeezed my eyes shut and put a hand to my head.

"It's okay," Officer Stewart assured me. Soon I was being lifted onto a stretcher and taken into the ambulance. Once we were inside and away from the lights, I looked around.

There was medical equipment lying all around me, but none of it seemed incredibly sophisticated. In fact, some of it looked quite old. I took a deep breath, wondering how long it would be until I had to use my new power. As long as they didn't use any kind of X-ray equipment, I should—hopefully—be good.

As the ambulance drove away, the paramedics hovered around me, "stabilizing" me and checking me over. I groaned and growled at the right times. They couldn't be allowed to find out what made me "special," as my dad called it. They had to remain blissfully unaware of the fact that they weren't treating a normal human. So I let out cries of pain or distress if they came close, and, unfortunately, I was forced to come to violence—it was only a pop in the nose, I swear—when one got a little too close to my neck. I started blubbering my apology, but as he held his nose he assured me that it was fine.

Out the window in the back I could see the police car following us. For some reason, that made me feel better. I already trusted Officer Charlie and Officer Stewart. They seemed genuinely concerned about me. It felt good.

I lay back on the stretcher and stared at the ceiling. So I lied about not knowing who I was. But I didn't lie about not knowing how I wound up on the side of the road with a bleeding head and a broken leg. The moments right before I went unconscious were lost to me. I strained my mind, hoping to find something, anything that would help, but nothing came.

So what was the last thing I remembered? Running. That's not unusual. But where was I running to? Why? I was . . . running through trees. I was running away from someone. I was running toward someone else. I must've taken the wrong path. I must've slipped.

Or I was knocked out on purpose by an enemy.

It all came back to "I don't know." I felt drowsiness come upon me, but I fought it off. I couldn't fall asleep. There was too much at risk. Lives were in danger at this moment, and if anyone found out who I really was, those lives would all be doomed. Some of those lives were the lives of my family.

_My family_.

I felt a lump rise to my throat. Why would I even care? It's not like I ever did before. Still, I had never been in an ambulance before. I found myself wishing that my dad was there beside me, holding my hand and telling me it would be okay. I needed my family. Where were they?

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**This story is partially based on theories I have about our heroine's personality. I'm trying not to make it OOC; I'm just giving you another look in her mind, to a side that you don't see often.**

**1\. How do you think she wound up on the side of the road?**

**2\. What do you think of Officer Stewart and Officer Charlie?**

**That was it. The first chapter of Forgetful. Did you guys like it? This story is going to be pretty different, I know. But I still think it's a fun idea. Reviews are appreciated, as usual. Thanks so much for reading. Updates on this story will be a bit sporadic, but hopefully I won't keep you waiting for too long. See you all soon! Bye!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Over twenty reviews on one chapter?! Holy cow! Thanks guys! Glad you liked it. And don't worry; you all guessed correctly. Kinda obvious, huh?**

**I want to apologize if anything in this chapter seems off. The situation is very complicated, and I tried to research it, but nothing I found was very helpful. As far as I know, no teenage girl has been found on the side of the road with amnesia before. It's a very weird situation, so hopefully I was able to pull it off correctly.**

**I don't own Lab Rats, just my characters and whatever else you don't recognize. Canton is a fictional place that came out of my imagination. Enjoy.**

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*** * * Chapter 2 * * ***

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It was snowing when we got to the hospital. I had noticed a thin layer on the ground outside the window of the ambulance. I faintly remembered snow beneath my head when the officers were talking to me. Strange I had not noticed it before. I chalked it up to the rush of adrenaline and confusion.

The hospital was small . . . and I mean _small_. It was only one floor, and according to the map I saw on the wall as I was pushed past, it only had ten rooms, including the lobby. I was wheeled into one of those rooms, a simple hospital room with typical equipment.

It was obvious that the EMTs weren't quite sure what to do with me. I couldn't blame them. They got a call from the police—or someone else, if it wasn't the police who found me—that a girl was found unconscious in the snow on the side of the road. When they found her, it turned out that she had amnesia. They had no way to contact her parents, and since her injuries weren't life-threatening, they couldn't treat her. Part of me wanted to tell them the truth just to make it easier on them. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that telling them the truth would actually make things even worse. I kept my mouth shut.

A nurse in pink scrubs walked into the room and talked to the EMTs. As the door closed, I noticed the two police officers standing outside in the hall. They were whispering to each other. Probably about me.

"Sweetie," the nurse said as she walked over to me. Her name-tag read "Mandy Monroe." "I'm gonna need you to think hard. Can you do that?"

I nodded, and winced at the unexpected pain that simple motion brought me.

"Do you know your name?"

I shook my head.

"Do you remember anything?"

I shook my head again. I let my breathing quicken a little, allowing for a sense of hopelessness and anxiety.

"Calm down, okay? You're fine. We just need to know if you can tell us who your parents are. I can't help you until we talk to them."

"I don't know," I squeaked. "I don't even know if I have parents." Of course, I did know. My parentage was complicated, but I knew of at least one parent I had, and two legal guardians to boot.

"You don't?"

"I don't know. I might. But I don't remember." I let out a strangled sob.

"Shh, sweetie. It's all right."

_It's not completely impossible for someone not to have parents, right? There are kids on the street. Can I let her believe I'm one of them? What would she do with me then?_

"We'll take care of you, okay?"

I nodded again. She had a soft voice. Very reassuring. She made a good nurse. I shuffled a little on the stretcher, hissing in pain as I bumped my right leg. Ms. Monroe went to my side right away.

"I'm okay," I said, biting back the tears. _I've been through worse_, I added silently.

Ms. Monroe nodded and walked out of the room. The EMTs had already exited, and I found myself alone. Outside the door, I could hear the nurse and the officers talking.

"What do we do with her?" Ms. Monroe asked.

"This is a very strange situation." That was Officer Charlie. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Who do you think she is?" Officer Stewart said. "A runaway?"

"You'd know better than me, Stewart."

"She has the look of one. Worn clothing, tangled hair, and a knapsack full of food."

A knapsack? Why on earth did I have a knapsack? How did they get it? Then I remembered Officer Charlie holding a brown leather bag. Was that mine? I half-chuckled, half-sighed as I realized that I might not have to _pretend _to have amnesia if I kept going like this.

Was I a runaway? That thought terrified me. There was no way. As annoying as my family could be, I loved them. I wouldn't have run away. Unless . . . something had happened. That gap in my memory . . . what happened before I was knocked unconscious near the road . . . nothing came to me. It was a big blank. That was horrifying.

The last thing I remembered . . . what was the last thing I remembered? It wasn't a clear picture. I got scraps and pieces. There was no one specific "last thing." It was a collection of scattered pictures and voices that made no sense. I closed my eyes tight and did everything I could to remember something—anything.

_"Old enemies. . . . I never told you. . . . I'm sorry. . . . Give me a second chance. . . . You have to listen. . . . Don't turn on me now. . . . Please. . . . Grab those boxes. . . . I know you hate this. . . . I'm just as angry as you are. . . . Someone hand me a blanket. . . . Oh, ha ha, very funny. . . . Don't go that way. . . . Rendezvous at . . ."_

Great, several quotes from my father. But not helpful in the least. Why would I be mad at him? What did we hate? What boxes? Where were we going to rendezvous? Did I ever hear the end of that sentence, or did I just forget again?

The mental images that went along with my father's voice were just as scattered and disorganized. I recognized our house in one of them, and it was a scene of chaos. But that's all I could figure out. There were also many pictures of trees. Not helpful in the least.

My brain was running at light-speed to give me the answers I desired. That seemed to work against me this time, as my memories disappeared as soon as I caught a glimpse of them.

There was one that stayed. It was a picture of a man with outstretched arms. He reached for me, and not in a kindly way. He yelled, growled, sneered at me. His fingers were inches away. He got my arm. His nails dug into my skin. He tried to drag me away . . .

I gasped and opened my eyes just as the nurse and both officers walked into the room. "We're in a strange position here, princess," Officer Charlie said. I mentally snarled at the nickname. He said it in a cordial way, but it still reminded me of an old enemy.

"You're in Canton, North Dakota," Officer Stewart said. "Even if you remembered, you wouldn't have ever heard of it. This is the only hospital for miles around, and there are only four officers in this area—Charlie and I are two of them. We'll phone into a larger city and see if we can find any records about you. How does that sound?"

"No!" I shrieked, startling them. Even I didn't know why I screamed. The words flowed out of my mouth, a disturbing mix of truths and lies. "You can't . . . please don't. No one can find me. Someone . . . someone is after me."

"Do you remember that?" Ms. Monroe asked.

"That's all I know," I whimpered. "I remember . . . a man. He wants me. Please. I . . . I think he's the reason I was out there . . . don't tell anyone . . . he'll find me . . . I don't even know who he is." I didn't have to fake the tears this time. There was a sudden rise of fear in my chest. The words came out of my mouth without my permission, and I was shocked to realize that they were true.

"If that's the case," Officer Stewart said, turning to the others, "then this is even more complicated than we realized."

"My boot," I whispered.

"What?" Officer Charlie asked.

"My boot," I repeated. I didn't know why I said that . . . then suddenly I did. I reached down painstakingly, reaching into my left boot—grateful it was in that one instead of my right—and pulled out a wadded up sheet of notebook paper. I unfolded it and read it for myself before handing it to Ms. Monroe. The words were chilling.

_You thought you could escape me?  
I'm right behind you. I'm watching  
your every move. This is your  
final warning. Give me what I want  
or you will suffer. All of you. You  
can't get away from me. In sixteen  
years, you haven't managed to shake  
me. I've hurt you before, and I won't  
hesitate to do it again. I can and will  
destroy your life. You'll watch everyone  
you love die slowly, painfully. Then  
it's your turn. I will smile while  
you cry. Turn them over and save  
yourself. You ruined my life. Now  
I'll ruin yours. You have one week. Don't  
even think about running. Your time  
is up, old friend.  
Much hate,  
\- J.D._

The words were written in sloppy cursive. The pencil marks had smudged in some places, but it was still readable. It was a clear threat. And while deep down I knew it wasn't written to me—only me, at the least—the others didn't need to know that.

"This is a serious threat," Officer Charlie said. "Did you show it to the police in your area?"

"Um, Charlie?" Stewart said. "She doesn't even remember her own name."

"Oh, right. Well, I hope you did."

"Do you know who wrote this, dear?" Ms. Monroe asked. "Even the faintest idea?"

At least I wouldn't have to lie this time. "I have no clue."

"'J.D.," Charlie read. "That could be almost anyone."

"We'll call Grand Forks and find out what we can. This is serious. And don't worry, we can keep you safe."

I knew that wasn't true, but I was in no position to fight them. All I could do was nod my head glumly.

"Uh, Stewie?" Charlie got his partner's attention and motioned out the window. "Look."

Outside, the snow had gotten heavier. Across the street there was a large electronic billboard. It looked like it belonged to some kind of bank. The billboard was unlit.

"Thank goodness for our generator," Ms. Monroe whispered.

"The whole town's out of power by now," Charlie said. "How much you wanna bet the telephone lines are down too?"

Officer Stewart scowled. "Come on." The two of them started to exit the room.

"Wait!" the nurse called. "What do I do with her?"

I didn't appreciate being talked about like I wasn't even in the room, but I decided it was best not to protest. My leg was aching and blood from my face was starting to stain the pillow.

"Treat her," Officer Stewart said after a moment's hesitation. "Just clean her up, maybe get a cast on. We can't leave her like that."

Ms. Monroe nodded in understanding. As the officers left, she turned to me. "This might hurt," she said softly. "I can't risk using painkillers. We don't know if you have any allergies."

"I don't think I do," I said, knowing full well that I didn't. "But I don't know." _Anything you do to me can't be worse than what I'm going through right now._

* * *

Twenty stitches down the side of my face. A bulky cast on my leg. A wheelchair. Never had I felt more helpless in all my life. Never had I been stuck in a single position, unable to move or do anything. It was awful.

"Can't get through?" Ms. Monroe asked.

"No," Officer Stewart said sadly, shaking his head. "And the roads are going to be closed soon, considering how hard it's snowing out there. We need to get home before it's too late."

"What should I do with her?" Ms. Monroe asked. I had been denoted as _her_. Couldn't really blame them, though. They didn't have my name, after all. They had to call me something.

"Is she all right?" Charlie asked.

"Her leg is set and her face is all cleaned up. I didn't risk an MRI. We'll just have to pray she doesn't have any internal damage."

I was eternally grateful that I didn't have to get an MRI or X-ray, but I wouldn't say that, or why. If she had decided to risk it, I would've had to use my new ability. I was still wary about that, so I was glad I didn't have to.

"I feel much better," I said meekly. "But what happens now?"

"Officer Stewart thinks it might be a good idea to take her home with him," Charlie said. "Would you mind, Mandy?"

"Oh, no!" the nurse said, obviously surprised. "I just figured she would stay here."

"She can, if you'd like," Stewart said. "But I know Janet wouldn't mind. I figured I'm qualified to take care of her. And we can watch her twenty-four hours a day. If you'd like her to stay . . ."

"No, if you could take her, that would be great!" Ms. Monroe crouched beside me. "Do you mind that, honey? Officer Cooper will take great care of you. He and his wife are wonderful people."

"I don't mind," I said. "I don't know where else I would go."

"It's settled then," Officer Charlie said. "Let's get back to the station."

"Agreed. We'd better hurry, though. The roads will be too icy to drive on soon. And Mandy, we'll be phoning a bigger station to find out more about her when the power comes back."

"Good. You'll have to keep me informed. This is weird, boys. I've never seen anything like it."

"Hear that, kid?" Officer Charlie said with a teasing smile. "You're the strangest case we've ever had."

I gave a faltering smile. Normality was something I had always longed for, but the world seemed determined to prove that I would never have it.

Getting me into the car was a bit difficult. The officers wound up lifting me into the backseat, and Officer Stewart put my wheelchair in the back. The snow had already left a reasonable layer on everything in sight, including the windshield. It was almost impossible to see through.

"Officers Derrick and Wes will take our place for the night patrol," Stewart explained to me. "They'll have a hard time in this weather."

"Welcome to Canton," Officer Charlie said.

_Glad to be here, _I thought sarcastically. _You guys think this is weird for you . . . it's strange for me too. What is going on? Why am I here? And where are my brothers? Why haven't they found me yet? _And the scariest thought of all: _Are they even still alive?_

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**How was it? For the note, I wrote it down on a sheet of notebook paper to see what it would look like. That's why it's formatted that way. Each new line was a new line on my notebook.**

**What do you guys think of this "J.D." person? (I'll give you a hint: You do ****_not _****know who he is.) Who was the note written too? What was up with all those thoughts about her father? What was he talking about?**

**Thanks for reading, as always. Sorry it took so long to update. Hopefully I can do it again soon. Reviews are love. :3 See you all soon! Bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

**(Before we get started, I have an announcement: I deleted my Bree/Sebastian story, Trust None. I'm really sorry, guys, but the plot just . . . just wasn't working. I admit that I really liked the prologue, but chapter one [which I hadn't posted yet] sucked, and I had zero motivation for a chapter two. It's the first story I ever deleted, and I feel bad, but I learned my lesson: don't post stories just because of peer pressure. I knew it was bad, I knew I had no ideas, and I posted it anyway, because you all wanted it. That was a mistake on my part, and I never should have done that. I'm so very sorry. But I wanted to let you all know that it won't be updated, and in fact, it doesn't even exist on this site anymore. Just in case any of you thought you were going crazy. I thought it would be cruel to tease people by keeping it up. Thanks for understanding guys, and I'll try to write a Sebree one-shot soon to make up for it.)**

**(Now back to your regularly scheduled daphrose . . .)**

**Heeeeeey aaaand it's been a few months. I won't waste your time. I don't own Lab Rats, just the plot and any characters you don't recognize. Enjoy!**

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*** * * Chapter 3 * * ***

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After turning the police car over to Derrick and Wes, Stewart and Charlie said goodbye and got into their own cars. Officer Stewart owned a ten year old Honda Civic with the snow chains already fitted around the tires. I had never actually seen snow chains on a car before. It was a strange sight. The car itself was an odd shade of brown near the bottom—probably because of mud it had encountered in its obviously long life—and the grey paint on top was peeling.

"I say she's well-worn," he said with a wink. "But she purrs like a kitten. Here, I'll help you in."

Like in the police car, I rode in the back seat with my wheelchair tucked away in the trunk. It was a bumpy ride, and every now and then I would groan and grasp my leg while Stewart muttered an apology. The snow crunched beneath our tires and fell from the sky onto the window. At some point I put my hand to the glass, only to draw it back and frantically blow on my fingers. The window was officially the coldest thing I had ever touched.

Officer Stewart glanced at me in the mirror, smiling. "I'm guessing you're not used to snow."

"Apparently not," I muttered. I had only experienced snow a select few times in my life. I had always been too busy to observe it closely, however. To sit there and simply watch the snow fall . . . it was a beautiful thing.

It was also a dangerous thing. We were headed up a small hill when the car got stuck on the icy road. Stewart slammed on the gas pedal and turned the wheel, but it wasn't doing much good. Finally he let the car roll back down and tried again. This time we were able to make it over.

Most of the ground around us was flat, and we were clearly in the middle of nowhere. The town was left behind and there was nothing but fields for miles around. There were few trees, unlike the place where I had woken up. Snow hindered the visibility, and the coming darkness of the night would soon make that worse. I folded my arms and leaned back in the seat, wondering if we would be able to make it to . . . wherever we were going.

It did occur to me at one point that I was riding in a car with a stranger, something my dad had always said was a bad thing. I quickly reminded myself that this man was a police officer, however, and while that didn't mean he was perfect, it did mean that he could be trusted more than some others. The dark blue uniform kept me from worrying.

After a while, I could see a house coming up on our right. Snow coated the window and obscured my view, but there was a building out there, most definitely. In fact, there were two. One was set further back from the road, and from what I could see, it was surrounded by some kind of fence. Officer Stewart pulled the car up to the front of the other building—the house. There were only faint lights in the windows that flickered and threatened to go out, most likely candles.

"Home sweet home," Stewart said. "You sure you don't mind staying here with us, sweetie?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked.

He laughed. "Well, maybe not. I'm not even sure I could get you back to the hospital now." He turned to look out the window, and I followed his lead. Sure enough, snow completely covered the road we had just traveled. If it wasn't safe before, it was downright dangerous now.

Officer Stewart's voice jolted me out of my thoughts. "You ready?"

"Ready for what?" I put my hand on the door handle and glanced out into the snow. "Oh, ready for that."

"Sit tight." He climbed out of the car and into the frosty white world. A minute later my door opened, and Stewart helped me into my wheelchair. The ride over the snow was bumpy, although somewhat fun, I'll admit. Slowly and steadily we were able to reach the porch. A small ramp sloped upward and Officer Stewart pushed me up it. "Didn't think we'd ever have to use this again," I heard him mutter under his breath.

Once we were under the roof of the porch and out of the snow, I proceeded to brush the white chunks off of my shoulders and shake them out of my hair. The action sent a new wave of pain through my head and I groaned.

"Careful, kiddo," Stewart said, patting my shoulder.

As we went through the door, someone called, "Thank goodness! I was worried you'd be stuck out there." A woman in her early thirties walked towards us from the back of the house. She froze when she saw me. Her face held an odd expression, one I couldn't quite read. It was mostly shock and confusion, along with a hint of sympathy, and something else I couldn't quite make out. "I thought we said we weren't getting any more kids, Stewart."

"She's . . . complicated."

Great. Now I'm complicated too. I felt a slight twang of guilt knowing that I was probably an inconvenience to these people. _Trust me_, I thought, _I don't want to be in this situation either._

"What's her name?" the woman asked.

"Can I talk to you in the other room, Janet?"

"But—"

"Now." Stewart's voice was strained.

"Well . . . okay. Just, um, make yourself comfortable, dear." She followed the officer into the other room, probably an office, giving him a strange look the whole way. The door was shut and I couldn't hear them anymore.

The house was incredibly cozy. There was a living room just to the right of the front door and a dining room table beyond that. Behind the table was a small kitchen. The stairs were past the kitchen, straight ahead of the door. The office Janet and Stewart had disappeared into was to the left. Beyond the office and over by the stairs was a hall that led to more rooms I couldn't see.

Ms. Monroe had taught me how to use the wheelchair back at the hospital. I utilized my new skills and moved over to the old green couch in the living room. The fireplace nearby was blazing and the heat felt good. No lights were on, but the fireplace and some candles kept the room well-lit. The whole house had the look of a cozy cabin in the middle of the woods. It was old and somewhat rustic, but it was also beautiful. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad here.

As I contemplated my new surroundings, someone came charging down the stairs. I looked up to see a young boy, probably about ten or eleven years old, come down them. He stopped with his hand on the railing and looked at me—no, he glared at me. "Who are you?"

Those three words added up to the most complicated question someone could've asked me at that moment. I had to play it off well. "Who are you?"

"A guy who doesn't like people who answer questions with questions." His glare only got sharper, like he was trying to intimidate me to get out of his house. "Why are you here?"

"It's hard to explain." I thought carefully about my choice of words. "Your dad brought me here."

His face contorted into something of a mix between amusement and disgust. "My _dad_?"

At that moment, Stewart and the other woman came out of the office. "I'm Janet Cooper," she said, walking over to me. "But you can just call me Janet."

"Who is this?" the boy said to the adults.

"Connor, not now." Stewart shook his head. "She . . . she doesn't even know who she is."

"She's dirty is what she is," the boy named Connor said with a scowl.

I frowned and ran a hand through my hair. "It's not my fault!" I protested. My voice sounded dry and hoarse. Ugh.

"She's right," Janet said. "It's not her fault. We're going to be taking care of her for a while." She looked at me. "Would you like some dinner, dear?"

As wonderful as food sounded, hunger was not my most pressing need. Nor was bathing. After the evening's events, there was only one thing I wanted. "Actually, I'm pretty tired. Could I just go to bed?"

"Of course," Janet said. "Here, I'll take you to your room."

She pushed my wheelchair across the floor and towards the hall near the stairs. We turned into it and then into a door on the right. The room didn't have much in it. There was a bed—a very comfortable-looking bed—and a dresser, as well as a desk in the corner. Janet opened up a drawer of the dresser and pulled out a pair of pink pajamas. To my surprise, the drawer was full of many clothes that looked like they would fit a teenage girl.

"I think these will fit you," she said. "Do you . . . uh . . . need my help getting them on?"

I pressed my lips together. "No, I think I can get it."

"Okay. There's a bathroom straight across the hall if you need it. We'll be in the kitchen." She paused for a second. "I know you're probably really scared right now, hun. And I don't know your whole story, but I know you're here for a reason. I don't know how easily you trust, but you can trust us, okay? I promise Stewart and I will take care of you."

I nodded. "Okay." That was all I wanted to say. That was all I had the strength to say. I was afraid I was going to fall asleep before Janet even left the room.

Luckily, she smiled softly and walked out after she heard my answer. The door closed shut behind her and I sighed. I was all alone. I couldn't decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

Climbing onto the bed proved to be a relatively easy task, though I had to be careful not to whack my leg against the wooden footboard. Getting the pajamas on was difficult, but not impossible. They did fit me well, and they were extremely comfortable. Much better than my other clothes, which were now caked with snow and mud. I folded the black jean leggings and striped tee carefully, wondering why I was still wearing clothes like that. These were normal clothes. They weren't my red and black mission suit. So I hadn't been on a mission. How in the world did I wind up in _North Dakota_?

The bed was much more comfy than the ground I had woken up on. The mattress seemed to sink beneath me and I buried my face in the pillow. It felt weird to be in a horizontal position—especially with a cast on—but I wasn't about to complain. Through a window behind the bed, I could see the snow still falling. The other building outside was also visible. I wondered what it was.

There was little light in the room, the only source being that one window. That didn't matter, though. Exhausted as I was, it only took me a few minutes to fall fast asleep.

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**Thoughts? Janet and Connor: first impressions? And why do the Coopers have a room with teenage girl clothes already in the dresser? If you weren't sure who our main character is, are you sure now? Reviews are always welcome; your thoughts and ideas about the story make me excited. :3 Thanks for reading! See you soon! Bye!**

**(P.S. I have a new poll of my profile regarding the sequel to "Dark Enough." If you guys have read that story, totally go check out that poll! It would mean a lot to me! Thanks!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**It's been months. I know that, you know that, so let's get on with it. I don't own Lab Rats, only my OCs. Enjoy!**

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*** * * Chapter 4 * * ***

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When I woke up in the morning, the alarm clock on my nightstand was still unlit. One glance told me that snow still fell with full force outside. I couldn't even tell what time it was, but for some reason I was quite sure that it was indeed morning.

After a whole night's sleep, I felt much refreshed. My leg still felt like it had been crushed by a boulder, and the side of my face burned, but otherwise I felt fine, except for the hunger gnawing at my stomach. Okay, maybe I wasn't so fine.

The door opened a crack and Janet peeked in. "Hey," she said when she saw me trying to sit up. "You awake?"

"Yeah, I just woke up. Come in."

Janet walked into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. "You slept right through breakfast, but I figured you'd be hungry. There're some eggs left over and a piece of bacon. They might be cold, but it's still food."

My stomach growled louder than ever. "That sounds amazing. But maybe I should bathe first?"

"Maybe that's a good idea. Ms. Monroe gave Stewart one of those plastic things to wrap up your leg so it does get wet. Do you, uh . . . need help?"

"I think I can get it. Thanks."

Janet looked relieved. To be honest, so was I. It would be awfully awkward if she had to help me.

"Okay, hun. There are some clothes in the drawer; feel free to use any of them."

"They don't belong to anyone?"

"Not anymore. To be honest, I'm not even sure why we kept them. Probably should've just donated them. Glad we didn't, though. Here we are, three years later, and we finally need them again." She chuckled and pulled out a few shirts, placing them on the bed. "Anyway, help yourself. They seem to be about your size."

I checked over the tags. "They are. Thanks."

"Okay. The bathroom's right across the hall. Here's a lantern if you need it; it can be dark in there."

I accepted the lantern and put it beside me on the bed. "Thank you. For everything. I know this is really weird." I could feel my cheeks turning red.

Janet smiled gently. "Don't worry about it. Please don't be afraid of us. We won't hurt you; I promise."

"I'm not scared."

There wasn't anything else to be said. Janet left and I picked out my new outfit for the day. The clothes in the drawers were actually cute, which somewhat shocked me. Trying not to be too invasive, I took only a pair of jeans and a waffle shirt. Glancing outside, I certainly hoped they also had a warm winter jacket I could borrow.

Getting across the hall proved to be a harder challenge than I first anticipated. I figured it would be pointless to take the wheelchair to go a few feet and then have to cram it into the bathroom. The wall was my support as I walked to the door and eventually out into the hall. When I looked down the hallway, I saw Connor sitting at the kitchen table. Our eyes locked for a second, but he quickly turned away, as if he hadn't seen me at all. I ignored it and continued with my quest.

The bathroom wasn't large, but that actually helped. Both walls gave me plenty of support getting in the shower, which doubled as a bathtub. I had to lean against the wall, but I managed to find a comfortable position that didn't hurt too much. The semi-warm water—actually pretty cold, but I wasn't about to complain—was wonderful for washing away the dirt, and maybe some of the shame as well. Part of me didn't want to get out.

After freshening up some more and slipping into the clean pair of clothes, I managed to stagger back across the hall and into my room. With a sigh, I collapsed onto the bed. It had been a struggle, but I had made it, and now I was much cleaner. So worth it.

I glared at the wheelchair as I hopped into it. I hated being confined to one position. Still, there wasn't much I could do about it. My leg would not allow me to walk around the house. _Just a few more weeks; you can make it._

I rolled out into the hallway and went into the kitchen. Connor was still at the table, leaning over some kind of book. Janet stood at the counter, fixing a lantern sitting near the sink. The room was illuminated by many such light sources, as well as the blazing fireplace in the living room.

"There you are," Janet said with a grin. "Your food's on the table if you'd like to eat."

"Definitely," I said. With some struggling, I managed to get the wheelchair over and by the plate of food. The table was the perfect height and my knees slid under it nicely.

The eggs were some of the best I've ever had. The bacon was delicious as well. Part of me wondered how Janet had managed to cook them without any power, but I supposed she knew what she was doing. After all, this was North Dakota. She probably dealt with power outages like this quite often.

"You okay, honey?" she asked.

"Yeah. These eggs are very good. Thank you."

"No problem."

"You don't have to kiss up to her," Connor whispered.

"What?" I asked. I noticed Janet's smile fall.

"You don't have to kiss up to her. She'll still give you food anyway. It's not like she's going to kick you out of her house."

"I . . . I'm not kissing up. They're really good eggs."

"Connor," Janet said in a warning tone.

Everything was silent for a few moments. Finally I broke the silence by asking, "Where's Officer Stewart?"

"You can just call him Stewart, honey. And he left a little while ago."

"In this weather?"

"It's not so bad this morning, even if the power's still out. He's got a job to do. He'll be back around dinnertime. Did you need him for something?"

"No, I was just wondering." I took another bite of eggs.

Janet walked over to the door and took a dark green coat off the wall. As she put it on, she said, "I'm going out to feed the horses. Connor, please be nice."

"No promises," he mumbled, too quietly for Janet to hear. I picked up on it, but I didn't say anything.

"You have horses?" I asked.

"Yes, and they need to eat just like we do. Poor things are probably freezing."

"They live in the Antarctica of the Northern Hemisphere; I think they're used to it," Connor said.

Janet's expression didn't change. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes." She looked right at me. "If you need anything, ask Connor. He'll be _more than happy to help_." She stressed the last part, looking at the boy. He only rolled his eyes. With a sigh, Janet walked to the front of the house and walked out the door.

That left me alone with a young boy who seemed to hate my guts. I had a hard time figuring him out. He wouldn't even make eye contact with me, but he hadn't looked at Janet either. Maybe it was time to make a new friend—if that was possible.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Homework," he replied, still without looking up. "It's Saturday. With any luck, we won't have school on Monday, but who knows? I've got a lot of work to do, so would you be quiet?" He had a physical science textbook open in front of him, thick enough to be from middle or even high school. He had a notebook open beside that with notes scrawled across every visible page, leading me to think that my presumptions about him had been wrong.

"You didn't strike me as the studying type." It was more of me admitting that I had been wrong to assume he was a non-intellectual rebel than an effort to learn about why he was studying.

"I'm not, but it's better than talking to you." No, he had lied. He had a content look on his face that only disappeared when I talked to him; he loved the schoolwork.

I pursed my lips. Something was up with this boy, but he wasn't about to tell me about it. Anger began to rise up in me. Who was I to be scared of a little kid? I could talk to him; find a way to break the ice.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?" I asked without any preamble.

"Because I know your type."

"That's not vague. And by the way, _I _don't even know my type."

With a sigh, Connor closed his book and looked up at me. His deep green eyes held a lot more wisdom and maturity than any kid his age should have, instantly clueing me in to the kind of life he had lived. I almost regretted pushing him. "I don't know how you wound up on the side of the road with amnesia," he said, "but even if you don't remember your name, you've still managed to keep your ways."

"My ways? I really don't understood." That time I didn't need to lie. He had lost me entirely.

"You wouldn't. No matter what you claim, I can tell that you've had a privileged life. Used to getting things you want, never struggling, never knowing what it means to simply survive."

This kid didn't know me; not at all. He didn't know how many life-and-death struggles I'd been through. Of course, I couldn't tell him, either, but he still had no right to talk to me that way.

"That's not true," I whispered.

"It is. Besides, how would you know? I thought you forgot everything?"

"I did! But . . ."

"Don't 'but' me. I know what I'm talking about. I know a spoiled princess when I see one."

The corners of my mouth twitched. Oh, how I wanted to blow him away with my quick-witted perception skills, but that was another thing I should probably keep to myself. Still, I allowed the passive-aggressive tone to slip through. "And I know an angry jerk when I see one. What's your problem?"

"My problem is that people like you think you deserve everything."

"You know nothing about me!"

"I don't have to! You're already staying here, and you automatically assume that you're the only one in the world with problems."

"I never said that."

"Again, you don't have to. You think a broken leg and a scratch on your face is pain? That's nothing."

"So you're just saying that everything I'm going through is nothing?"

"I'm saying you're not entitled to everything you're getting right now."

"You think I should've died out there in the snow." It wasn't a question.

"I'm saying you should've gotten up and moved on. You don't need anyone to help you, but you think you do! You think you're _entitled _to being helped."

"How about you? If you don't need anyone to help you, why are you here?"

"I don't want to be!"

"Look, I'm sorry if I'm taking up some space in your house and turning your parents' attention away from you—"

"There you go again with your assumptions. This is _not _my house. Stewart and Janet are _not _my parents! They never will be. I don't want or _need _parents."

For the first time during the argument, I was at a loss for words.

"I can't stop you from staying here," Connor whispered. "But no one can force me to like it. You're too weird. You're a spoiled brat, and the worst part is you don't know it. You're trouble; I can sense it."

I looked him in the eye. "Stop judging me."

He started back at me. "No."

"_I'm _the brat? You're the one who won't even give me a chance!"

"You're not the victim here. Quit acting like you are. Call me when you grow up." Connor stood up forcefully, his chair falling over behind him. He grabbed his science book and marched up the stairs.

"I've known you for eighteen hours and this is how you treat me?" I called up after him. "What happened to being a polite host?"

To be honest, something in me came alive when I argued with Connor. It made me feel better than I had for the past few days. It made me feel normal.

The front door opened and I heard Janet groan. I looked at the tipped over chair and then up at her. _Time for both of us to do some explaining . . ._

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**Awkward situations lead to awkward confrontations. And yes, Conner's a jerk. I wrote him that way. You can be mad at him if you want, but remember that this is only the beginning of his relationship with our main character. There's a lot more to come.**

**I don't know when the next update will be. I'll try to make it soon, but to be honest, I can't promise anything. I'm sorry for taking so long on some of my stories, but I do have news: This year and from now on, I won't post new stories until I've finished them entirely. That way you won't have to wait around for so long. I'll also work harder on updating the stories I haven't finished yet. Keep reviewing and reminding me, because I'm quite forgetful. (Ha ha.)**

**Reviews are loved, and they give me inspiration for updates. What do you guys want to see happen next in the story? I've lost a bit of the vision of where I wanted the story to go, so if you want to give me theories about our MC's situation and who the J.D. was from a few chapters back and why he's after her/her family, I'd love to hear them. They might just give me some good ideas for what to do next. Thanks to all for reading, and hopefully the next update won't be so long. Bye!**


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